


A New Force

by Miran0ne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Feels, Developing Friendships, Drama, Fantasy, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hiding, Hiding in Plain Sight, Interfering with Destiny, Isolation, Loneliness, Secret Identity, Trust, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27523948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miran0ne/pseuds/Miran0ne
Summary: After centuries spent hiding from the world, the legendary Merlin is forced to emerge at Hogwarts when his magic becomes affected by an unknown force.But hiding his identity is hard; especially since he’s wanted by the Ministry, yet nonetheless determined to save a famed young student from the claws of fate that so devastated his own life.Requires prior knowledge of HP, but not Merlin.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 99





	1. An Unusual Occurence

The occasional creaking of a chair or scratching of a quill were the only sounds which disturbed the otherwise eerie silence on a sweaty summers evening in the Department for Unusual Magical Occurrences at the Ministry of Magic. Head Witch Martha Muggins removed her orange glasses and gently rubbed her watering eyes with the palms of her hands. She glanced across the piles of paper covering her desk at the grandfather clock, stood at the other end of the rather large open room she and her team called their office. Ten to seven. Ten minutes until the day was done.

Stretching her arms out in front of her, she looked around at the heads strewn around the mostly vacant paper-stacked desks; what little remained at the late hour of her already reduced summer staff. She’d been promised reinforcements as people returned from their holidays, yet even to her that seemed like a waste. Though her department had a lot of reports to get through, they had yet to discover even a single ‘unusual magical occurrence’.

Her department had only recently been set up by the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, following advice from Headmaster Albus Dumbledore after the dramatic events at Hogwarts school near the end of last term. Martha had read in the Daily Prophet about how little Harry Potter, in his very first year of school, had managed to singlehandedly unearth and defeat a plot to return He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power.

At the time she had doubted most of what she’d read in the article, given it was written by the infamous Rita Skeeter, but considering that Minister Fudge had set up an entirely new department because of it, there had to be at least a grain of truth in the story. And Martha was glad for the promotion, so they would hear no complaint from her.

A sharp creak from yet another chair made her head shoot up out of her hands and her eyes once again landed on the clock. Five to. _Merlin_ , she needed to concentrate! What wasn’t done today would simply be added to tomorrow’s workload, and she knew she wouldn’t thank herself for that.

Replacing her glasses on her nose with a yawn and shake of the head, her eyes barely had time to land on the page she was reading before a completely new sound met her ears: rapid footsteps. The dark and blurry shape before her came into focus as it approached, and she recognised young Mr. Gregory.

“Yes Gregory, what do you want?” she shot, letting perhaps a little too much of her annoyance slip into her voice. Maybe more than just a little, she reprimanded herself as the young man flinched, but he recovered quickly and spoke in a self-assured voice:

“I believe I’ve found something significant, ma’am.”

He held out a paper which she grabbed and quickly glanced over before doing a double take. She looked from the paper to Gregory, to the paper, to Gregory, and back to the paper. Then she stood up, the scraping of her chair turning the last few heads still half-heartedly engaged in their work.

“I believe you’re correct. Come with me, Mr. Gregory.” And with firm footsteps, she quickly zig-zagged between the desks and walked out of the room, Gregory hurrying along behind her.

“Where are we going, Mrs. Muggins?”

* * *

***

* * *

Fudge was very satisfied. He had finally dismissed his last visitor for the day and was now free to leave. But just as he had shrugged on his coat and retrieved his lime-green bowler hat from the desk, there was another knock at his office door.

Momentarily freezing, he sighed deeply before heading to open it himself: sitting down would invite for a much longer conversation than he felt capable of at the moment.

“Yes?” he prompted as the door swung open. In the hallway outside stood a proud-looking middle aged woman wearing orange glasses and, cowering slightly behind her, a young man. Fudge had time to think he vaguely recognised the woman before she spoke.

“I’m Martha Muggins, head of the Department for Unusual Magical Occurrences, and this is Tom Gregory, one of my staff.” Gregory inclined his head politely. “We’re here because we believe we’ve discovered something which needs your urgent attention.”

“What is this discovery?” Fudge inquired wearily. Now he remembered who she was, and he wasn’t pleased. He’d set up the department in question primarily to appease Dumbledore, never in a million years had he expected to get anything useful out of it.

Without a word the woman, Mrs. Muggins, held out a paper. Snatching it irritably from her hand, Fudge looked it over. There was a moment of silence. Then, with a deep, resigned sigh, the Minister opened the door fully and held out his arm for them to enter his office.

It would appear he’d been wrong. His day wasn’t quite over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> This is my first fic, and I hope you'll stay with me as I figure out this new world of writing and publishing :)  
> I've had this laying around for a while, so I finally decided to polish and publish it. The story is all planned out, so "all" that's left to do is to write it ;) 
> 
> I'll post the chapters I have pre-written now, and moving forward you can expect new ones to pop up about once a week (though I won't make any promises).
> 
> **Notes for anyone using software to read this story aloud:** I've used these before, and know they struggle with written accents, certain words cough/dollop-head pronounced dollo-fead\cough and the like. At times I will therefore use extra hyphens and keep accents to a minimum (also partially because I can't write them, but let's not talk about that). I'll also mark section breaks with three asterisks so they are audible, and try to word my writing so that it is clear what is internal monologue and what is actual speech. If you have any other suggestions to make the story more accessible, please leave a comment so that as many people as possible can enjoy my little adventure :)


	2. A Legendary Friendship

“Hurry up, Merlin, or we won’t be there by sundown.”

The man in question let his sky-blue eyes fall back down from their study of the treetops, yet his mind lingered in some distant fog of thoughts. But the King was far too anxious to deal with bumbling idiots at the moment.

“ _Mer_ lin!”

The name shot through the air like a whipcrack, abruptly pulling the manservant back to reality. Shaking the last fog from his mind and making his tufts of black hair swing from side to side, Merlin pressed his heels to the sides of his horse and soon the distance to the King began to shrink.

“Maybe we wouldn’t be running so late if the horses didn’t have to carry so much weight,” Merlin grumbled as he pulled level with his master.

“We have barely any packing, _Mer_ lin, which is why we need to get there on time,” Arthur pointed out absentmindedly, urging his steed to speed up as well.

A teasing smile came over Merlin’s well-defined features.

“No, I’m just saying some of the blame should probably be put on those new holes I’ve had to make in your belt.” Merlin noticed Arthur tense in his saddle in the short moment before he graciously added: “Your Greatness.”

That was the final straw for the already strained King Arthur. In the blink of an eye, Merlin lay flat with his back against his horse, the blade of a stunningly decorated sword resting lightly against his throat. The two young men – and their horses – held completely still for several long seconds, in which time Merlin silently marvelled at the formidable (if he did say so himself) result from his last sharpening of the blade.

Finally relenting, Arthur withdrew Excalibur and returned it to its sheath.

“You’re lucky to have such good reflexes for a manservant,” he remarked as he urged his steed back into motion. “You’re lucky I decided to train you with all those cups over the years.”

_I’m lucky I’ve had to save Camelot from a secret magical attack every other week..._

“You only throw those at me because you’re too lazy to get your fat behind out of bed,” Merlin countered grudgingly, sitting back up and urging his horse on as well. “And because you’re a dollop-headed clotpole.”

“That is still not a word,” said Arthur instinctively. “And no, it _is_ actually training. Good manservants are hard to come by, it’d be a pity to lose you. I’d rather _dress myself_ than suffer through another one of George’s brass jokes.”

Merlin smirked.

“So today is one of those days, is it?”

“What kind of day?”

“One where I’m a _good_ manservant.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and Merlin’s grin widened.

“I never said you were _competent_. Good simply means you don’t bore me to death with proper customs and etiquette.”

“Oh, it really is one of those days! Shall we send word for Guinevere to stop the wedding preparations?” That earned him a scalding glare from the King. Merlin directed his horse to walk further to the side of the path so that he’d be safe from any additional lashings out.

“Really, Merlin,” said Arthur, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Sometimes you make me wonder why I keep you around.”

“Well, you’re not exactly a dream to work for either.”

“Why stay, then?”

Merlin felt Arthur’s eyes on him while he pondered his response. They rode on in silence for a while, the winding dirt path leading them on through the sparse forest and down between two ridges covered in bushes.

‘Why stay, then’ – what could he possibly say to that? _‘Oh, you know that Great Dragon that almost destroyed Camelot – his name is Kilgharrah actually, he can talk – well, he told me that I’m Emrys, the most powerful warlock who will ever live, and that it is my prophesied destiny to protect the Once and Future King – that’s you, by the way – so that one day you can unite all of Albion and lift the ban on magic, thus creating a golden age of peace and harmony. Also, if you could just ignore the fact that I’ve been practising magic illegally since the day we met and like not burn me on the pyre for it, that would be great!’_

Merlin took a deep breath.

“Because I believe you’re a good king, capable of being a great one,” he finally answered honestly. “But sometimes you need someone to remind you that you’re also a prat.”

Arthur simply chuckled.

“Well…” He trailed off and remained uncharacteristically silent for a few moments. “You may be rude and an idiot, Merlin, but at least you’re a loyal one.”

Coming from Arthur, that was practically a heartfelt confession of deepest love. Stumped at the rare moment of sincerity, Merlin barely registered the rustling of leaves to his left before he felt a rush of air past his ear, followed by a hard _thunk_ as an arrow embedded itself in a tree up ahead.

All their previous mirth was forgotten as a band of bandits, half a dozen men strong, rushed from the bushes and down the slopes either side of the path. With the speed and agility of a life spent in combat training, Arthur was on the ground and the fighting was immediate. Metal clanged against metal and loud shouts of excitement echoed all along the shallow rift in the landscape.

Merlin slid off his horse only moments after Arthur, but the very second his feet hit the ground he once more felt cold iron against his throat. Only this time, it was immediately followed by a putrid smell of sweat and alcohol. Right next to his ear he could hear his captor drawing breath, no doubt about to inform the King of his hostage.

_Not today you won’t._

Merlin let his magic bubble to the surface, tingling through his skin. Those sky-blue eyes burned golden as with the tiniest gesture, the root of a tree broke free from the ground and wound itself around the bandit’s ankle. Another flick and the man was flat on his back, gasping for breath, having released Merlin in favour of trying to break his own fall. It took no more than a second.

Warmed up, Merlin spun on the spot trying to get a grip on their situation. He saw Arthur swing Excalibur in a precise arc, taking out one of his two opponents. Looking around, though, they were clearly severely outnumbered. Without his magic, they didn’t stand a chance. He only needed a place to hide so he could work unseen-

His analysis was cut short by a twig snapping to his left. He spun around again, reaching his arm out and readying his magic to discreetly counter whatever came at him. But, mid-turn, he was briefly blinded by a distant flash of sun reflecting off of metal: a knife was rapidly spinning through the air, heading straight for the King’s head.

Merlin’s panicked cry of _‘Arthur, behind you!’_ was cut short by his own scream as piercing pain shot along his outstretched arm. He only glimpsed the red and barely registered a warmth spreading along his forearm before his head snapped forward again and his irises once more turned golden.

The hilt of the now bloodied sword clasped in the bandit’s hands glowed red-hot. The weapon dropped to the ground immediately and with a terrified glance at Merlin, the Bandit scrambled off up the nearest slope, nursing his scolded palms.

Quickly returning his attention to Arthur, Merlin’s heart froze. Blue eyes burned golden yet again and time slowed – literally – the moment of horror stretching before him: Arthur’s torso turning to slash the spinning blade from the air, all the while his previous attacker thrusting his sword up to skewer his now exposed back.

Wordlessly, a shockwave emanated from the warlock. Its golden shimmer quickly expanded out toward the two men and their slow battle of speed.

_It’s coming. It’s coming. It’s…_

As time resumed its normal pace, anyone still standing emitted loud shrieks as they were flung through the air. Leaves and branches within an ever-growing radius rustled and creaked threateningly.

Then there was dead silence.

Heart pumping furiously, only Merlin remained standing, staring. The combined effort of the blast and slowing time must have turned his brain to cotton because it felt oddly light, yet too dense to piece together any meaning from the sight before him.

Despite feeling his legs straining to carry his weight, he seemed to float forward across the ground. The short distance before him stretched longer with each step he took. Then something within him broke and his legs gave way to forces beyond his control. He crumbled ungracefully to the ground beside the silver-clad figure lying on his back, silhouetted against his vibrantly Camelot-red cape.

_It can’t… I…_

_NO._

Because the scarlet cape was slowly turning maroon, an irregular blob expanding out from beneath the King’s torso. Lost to the world, Merlin’s exhausted gaze was transfixed by the way the liquid conquered more and more cloth; each red fibre growing wider and clinging to its neighbours as they were all saturated with darkness.

Still his thick cotton brain couldn’t piece the sight together.

A sharp intake of breath broke his trance and Merlin looked up to meet two very shiny, very blue eyes. They seemed distant, gazing unfocused at an infinity somewhere beyond Merlin’s fuzzy head. Then the eyes moved down, searching erratically before finally fixing on something beside his hip.

“Merlin…” A wheeze marred Arthur’s usually steady voice. Merlin could only stare at him. “Merlin, you’re hurt.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitched involuntarily. For the first time he too looked down and saw how the dark blue fabric along his forearm was stained almost entirely dark brown. A long rip revealed a rather deep bright red gouge in his flesh. Despite not feeling any pain, his stomach churned and he looked away with a wince.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he deflected in a husky voice. “We need t’ get you back t’ Camelot.” He quickly wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his good arm. This was all wrong. They weren’t done. They had yet to fulfil the prophesy…

“No, Merlin. Not Camelot,“ Arthur protested, rolling his head lightly from side to side. “The magic…”

Merlin’s breath hitched in his chest. Though he didn't want to believe it, he knew that this time, Arthur must have seen him.

“Magic?” He prompted weakly, dreading the response.

“There was a sorcerer. We must find him,” Arthur affirmed, locking his weak but determined gaze with Merlin’s.

Merlin stared blankly back at his master, his King. His friend. Arthur still didn’t know. All these years and he still couldn’t see what was right in front of him.

“Th…” Merlin cleared his throat. “There _was_ a sorcerer. He tried to _save_ you.” His voice broke.

Arthur frowned.

“No, Merlin,” he breathed weakly, speaking gently, as if to a child. “He attacked, he threw us to the ground. He must be brought to justice.”

Arthur’s deep-rooted distrust of magic – as instinctive to him as its use was to Merlin – pierced Merlin’s flesh like a heavy spear. It twisted knots in his stomach and made him nauseous as the convoluted truth of their situation finally dawned on him fully.

Arthur had always been honest with him, trusting both his discretion and judgement. Yet, in all the ways that mattered, Merlin had only ever repaid his trust by holding back, deceiving him, even outright lying.

The horrible realisation awakened an unfamiliar desperation within him. It grew and grew and grew until the sheer force of regret and shame seemed to crush his very being. The stone walls he’d hid behind crumbled to dust and with a roar unlike anything he’d ever felt before the beast confined within broke free. Euphoric relief spun a rapid vortex with petrifying fear as the admission he’d barely dared to dream of was finally spoken out loud:

“Arthur, that was me. You were cornered, they were-”

“You?” the sharp snap of Arthur’s voice was accompanied by a sudden change in his eyes. Friendly warmth had turned to drills painfully boring through Merlin’s skull, and he had to avert his gaze.

“I…” A noose pulled his throat tight and despite clearing it, Merlin’s voice came out as only a croak. “I have magic, Arthur. I’ve-”

“Guards!” Arthur’s voice suddenly rang loud and clear, echoing up and down the small vale. It startled Merlin and his heart began to race in panic. “ _Guards_!”

“Arthur, there are no-”

“Sorcerer!” Arthur spat. He tried to shuffle away from Merlin, but only succeeded in making himself wince hard in pain. ”Prepare the pyre! Sorcer-”

A hacking cough broke him off, one which Merlin didn’t like the sound of at all. Despite his fear the warlock tried to move closer, desperate to give his friend some kind of comfort, but Arthur weakly made another obviously painful move to get away. Unable to watch, Merlin turned his head away.

The coughing continued, growing fainter and fainter. Then it stopped. A deafening silence was left in its place, punctuated only by the rustling of leaves from the canopy above.

Slowly, very slowly, Merlin turned his head. Arthur still lay on his back, but the maroon patch beneath him was no longer growing. He no longer drew breath.

For an eternity, or perhaps only a few moments, Merlin simply sat there. Unable to move, unable to think, only able to hear the rustling above and the thumping within. But slowly, the ability to think returned to him and once the thoughts came, they wouldn’t stop. A flood wave washed away the cotton clogging up his brain. The torrent swirled dizzyingly around his head and he suddenly found himself too giddy to sit still.

Standing, he looked around at the limp bodies scattered like ragdolls along the dirt path. Another wave of excruciating thoughts washed over him, grinding his legs into motion. Without so much as a glance back, his feet started off along the dirt path. Away.

_This is wrong. This is so very wrong._

All his thoughts spiralled on the axis of one simple fact; he – Emrys of druid legend – had failed. Everything was his fault. He was the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth and he had failed his destiny. He had failed Albion and its people. He had failed magic and the Old Religion. He had failed Arthur…

His feet picked up the pace, from walking to trotting. When that wasn’t enough he broke into a run. The force of his heart pounding to escape its bony cage emphasised the rapid drumming of his feet on the hard dirt path.

_I need to get out. Where do I go?_

Running on without a destination, his hands grasped painfully hard at whatever they could reach: clothes, skin, hair. He was trapped, running flat out and he was trapped with no escape. His wounded arm and the soles of his feet throbbed numbly. The muscles in his legs burned, his lungs were on fire and he couldn’t _breathe_.

Suddenly there was no ground beneath his feet. Though his legs kept pedalling, he felt a horrible lurch in his stomach as he began to fall freely through the air. This really was the end, there was no way back-

1418 years later, a loud _bang_ awoke Merlin with a start. His suddenly wide open eyes stared blindly up at the dark ceiling from where he lay, twisted in the damp sheets of his bed, breathing heavily.


	3. The Lot of the Immortal

Immortality really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. At first you don’t even notice it. You live much as anyone; getting to know people and places, finding your place in the world. You’re happy.

But when your friends grow old, wither and die, you remain behind. A refugee displaced by the relentless passage of time. Your family and home fade from the world until your memories are the only trace they ever existed. 1447 years old. By now there really was _nothing_ left of ‘home’.

* * *

***

* * *

The dim light of dawn sifted through thick late-summer foliage and pierced a cascade of ancient glass before it reached the wallpaper peeling off the walls in the small bedroom. Or was it maybe the light of dusk? Merlin wasn’t sure as he lay studying the prune sky beyond the charcoal treetops. It didn’t matter either way. Unless the Once and Future King decided that today was the day to finally live up to his name and return from the dead, Merlin had no appointments to keep.

His ears still rang with the sound of the blast and a strange sort of sweetly burnt smell stung his nose. Despite only just waking up, Merlin felt drained: a combination of a fitful sleep and causing the blast, he presumed.

He brought his hands up to cover his face and for a moment he was startled to find it bearded and wrinkled with age. Still, the surprising sensation did help convince him that what he’d just experienced was just a dream; not reality – present or otherwise.

A fresh bout of anxiety surged in his chest, prompting him to cautiously dig his elbows into the hard mattress. One limb at a time, he very slowly got himself out of bed. Rotting floorboards creaked and swayed underfoot as he made his way unsteadily through the dim room to the simple chair stood by the door.

His back protested painfully as he hunched forward to grab the worn leather jacket dangling from its seat. The pain in his lower back shifted upward as his shoulders strained to pull the clinging sleeves over the clothes he no longer bothered taking off.

_This all used to be so much easier._

When he was younger his body had felt whole, like a single continuous mesh, but now he felt old and broken: painfully aware of every single aching corner of his carnal cage.

And what wouldn’t he give to be less aware? He had always thought age and experience would bring wisdom and perspective, yet it had only brought him contradiction and confusion. Like his wizening body, his understanding of the world had matured from a naively coherent fantasy into a complex and conflicting reality. At times he had even questioned if the harmonious world promised by the prophesy was possible, and hadn’t it been for the fact that the prophesy had predicted his immortality, he would have long since abandoned any hope for a better future.

A rumble from his stomach rattled him from his thoughts. Praying to the Triple Goddess that he still had some food left in the cellar, Merlin grasped the cool metal doorknob before him and twisted.

He never engaged in the present time unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn’t belong in it, so it didn’t belong to him. His contact with the outside world was confined to the times when he ventured out to some nearby farm for food, and even then he avoided people. He would grab some of their produce – eggs, milk, vegetables – and then repay them with some small charm to repel pests or improve yield.

Otherwise he would spend his time isolated in whatever abandoned accommodation he could find. After so much time spent alone, the only activity which could still bring him joy was wandering through his memories. Merlin found they came in waves; sometimes he would remember his 1100s, other times his 600s. The only memories which he could recall voluntarily were those of his youth.

Though over a dozen centuries had passed, it really was extraordinary how clearly he could bring Camelot to mind. Vividly he saw the silhouette of the white castle towers overlooking the town, heard echoes of the knights’ joyful shouts from their training in the grounds, smelled dust and spices from the market, and even tasted the soup made by his great uncle Gaius in their cool castle chambers.

Yet as he wandered the long lost sunlit streets of Camelot, there always loomed a sense of foreboding. Though he tried not to dwell on his mistakes, even his happiest memories were haunted with regrets. There was always something he knew he should have done differently, or things he’d wanted to say but didn’t. What if he’d been more honest? What if he’d told Arthur the truth? Would things have ended differently?

Worst were the nightmares; they trapped him within his worst regrets and mistakes: made them tangible and inescapable. And recently, they had gotten more frequent and even worse. It had been a long time since one of his nightmares involved Arthur’s death. A century? Two, three?

Merlin's ponderings halted as he reached the front door at the end of the hallway. Stepping outside, he took a deep breath, letting crisp night air replace the dank smell of the house. Tension drained from his shoulders with the air he exhaled and he remained standing on the threshold for a while, drinking in the quiet of the gloomy hour. The looming charcoal forest surrounding the house on all sides lay dormant beneath the faint twinkles of the pastel sky, an occasional gust of wind the only disruption of its peace.

Merlin continued on out into the overgrown garden and around the corner of the cottage. His painful hips and knees slowly carried him on the agonising journey down the slippery stone steps leading into the ground along the foundation wall. Finally pulling open the cellar door at the bottom, he was enveloped by air even colder than that outside. It filled his nostrils with a smell of damp earth and poured chills down his back.

Merlin sighed deeply.

_Empty._


	4. A New Threat

By the time Merlin was making his way back home through the forest, one hand carrying fresh eggs and milk in a leather pouch slung over his back, night had come and gone. He must have awoke at dusk after all. As his stomach disturbed the silence of the dim forest for the umpteenth time, he resolved to stop and eat something next time he found somewhere comfortable to sit.

The sun rose higher in the sky as he walked on. Rays of sunlight poured down through the canopy above, filling the world submerged beneath its surface with a bright green light. It was a tonic, awakening the dormant forest. Bright sunrise melodies joined the chorus of birdsong, little creatures rustled unseen through the undergrowth, and occasionally he even caught a glimpse of a squirrel hurrying along a tree trunk up ahead.

Soon enough, the winding path brought Merlin around the foot of an uprooted tree to reveal a rather large sunlit clearing with tall, yellowing grass. Stepping off the path, he made his way through the sea of yellow out to the trunk of the fallen tree, which just about reached his hips. Pushing off with his feet while hoisting himself up and back with his free arm, he managed to sit himself down atop the dried out trunk.

Merlin let his other arm drop the leather pouch onto the bark beside him. From it, he pulled a bottle of milk, some salt, and an egg. His increasingly sleepy mind reached for the magic he needed to cook the egg in his hand. But the familiar tingling feeling didn’t come.

Frowning, he called for his magic again. But again, he felt nothing. Merlin searched his body for the tingles, but all he found was aching joints and a piercingly empty stomach. Fear just like he’d felt after the nightmare rose in his chest. Desperately, he called for his magic a third time.

Something seemed to snap within him and with a rush magic surged back through his body, almost pushing him backward off the trunk. As he regained his balance, Merlin felt the smooth surface of the egg almost scalding the palm of his hand. He let out a relieved sigh and began the fiddly work of peeling his breakfast.

The meal soothed both his hunger and any lingering fright. He was very much out of practice, after all, on top of which he’d exhausted himself causing that blast as he woke. Having finished the egg, Merlin remained sitting on the trunk of the fallen tree, occasionally taking a sip from his bottle of milk, watching the morning breeze sweep lazy waves across the grass and relishing in the warmth of the sun.

The sun’s rays reinvigorated his whole being, making him feel almost young and whole again. He found he couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this good. It had been a week since he left the house, and it was almost impossible to be anything other than gloomy in that place. It being located at the bottom of a dip in the landscape and surrounded by forest did make it perfectly secluded, but it also meant the interior was almost permanently dark and cold.

A few weeks ago, not long after he first discovered the house, he had tried to warm it up using magic, but the minimal effect had not been worth the energy to keep the spell going. Instead, he had had to make do with making an ordinary fire and seating himself close to -

Just then, a distant murmur reached Merlin’s ears from the direction he had come into the clearing. Straining to identify the sound, he soon recognised it as human voices in intermittent but intense discussion. But they were too far away for him to make out what they were saying.

_Time to go._

He resealed the milk bottle and stashed it back in his pouch, along with the salt. Gingerly, he slid off the trunk onto his sore legs, whose joints had stiffened again in the short time they had remained immobile. Swinging the pouch once more over his shoulder, he began to wade back through the tall grass toward the path.

All the while, the distant voices grew louder as they seemed to approach the clearing. Soon Merlin could even hear the words being spoken:

“…must have come from somewhere around here.”

“Hang on, I think it’s this way!”

Merlin picked up the pace, straining against his joints’ painful protests. Then his toes caught on something hard and unmoving in the long grass. He only had time to curse the Triple Goddess for his clumsiness before he fell headlong onto the open path. The palm of his free hand dug painfully into the dirt and gravel and if it wasn’t for his magic, he was sure his wrist would have sprained. Still, he couldn’t help the hoarse yelp that escaped his throat.

Merlin froze where he lay. For a moment, he naively thought the sound couldn’t have carried back through the trees as the forest seemed to fall almost completely silent. But then he heard a loud exclamation terrifyingly close to the edge of the clearing. And now he could hear rapid footsteps approaching too.

He scrambled to get to his feet, but his worn body resisted and just as he finally came upright, a group of eight or so people – all dressed in horribly mismatched colourful clothes – came thundering out from behind the upturned root. They froze, staring silently at Merlin. Merlin stared back at them, also frozen to the spot.

_Now what?_

Who were they? What did they want? Merlin observed warily as a tall, bald man confidently stepped forward from the rest of the group. Looking closer at him, Merlin saw that he was in fact the only one dressed sensibly: a plum coloured shirt, dark brown leather shoes and … that new kind of blue trousers … jeans, were they called? The only remarkable thing about his attire was the single gold hoop in his left ear.

The man cleared his throat, strumming on the silence stretched taut between them. Then he spoke in a deep, measured voice:

“Wizard or muggle?”

Merlin remained where he stood, letting the vibrating silence fall still and taut again.

_Wizards. Just my luck._

He slowly let the pouch slide off his shoulder once more and carefully placed it on the ground beside him, fully aware of the many eyes scrutinising his every movement. His back creaked like an old tree straining in the wind as he straightened again.

_Warlock, actually._

“Wizard,” he finally replied in an extremely hoarse voice which hadn’t been used for more than a century. He displayed his palms in an innocent shrug before clasping his hands behind his back.

All members of the group immediately raised an arm each, brandishing polished wooden sticks at him. Wands, Merlin reminded himself. The man who had spoken before, presumably their leader, made a quick gesture with his wand-free hand for the group to spread out. They did so, rapidly surrounding Merlin in a near perfect circle.

Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, Merlin looked around at them before returning his gaze to the leader.

“Now, what’s all this?” he inquired innocently, but the broad-shouldered stranger didn’t waver.

“Who are you?” he demanded firmly.

Merlin couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

_Like you’d believe me if I told you._

“Oh, just a traveller passing through,” he said amusedly, voice still rough but rapidly regaining its strength.

“State your name.”

“John.”

“Surname?”

“Smith.”

The man frowned, obviously doubting that that was his real name. Quickly throwing around for a distraction, Merlin added politely:

“And who are you, may I ask?”

“I am auror Kingsley Shacklebolt,” the man said calmly. “We’ve been sent here by the Ministry of Magic to investigate the source of an unusual magical occurrence. Have any such occurrences come to your attention lately, Mr. Smith?”

“No, I can’t say they have, Mr. Shacklebolt.” Once more, Merlin glanced around the wands pointed at him from every direction. “But I dare say you’re otherwise persuaded?”

Mr. Shacklebolt remained unamused.

“Yesterday the Ministry detected a spike in this area’s magical levels. Just some moments ago, our group detected a spike of the same signature stemming from this field.” Mr. Shacklebolt indicated their surroundings with a small gesture. “So, I’ll give you one more chance to cooperate. Who are you, and what is your business here?”

Merlin responded to the auror’s unyielding gaze with what he hoped to be a pleasant smile as he weighed his options. Obviously he was in no immediate danger: if needed, he could take out the entire group with a single spell. But such an attack would hardly lessen the Ministry’s interest in him or the area.

He could of course cast a memory charm instead and simply walk away… But again, if the aurors returned to the Ministry with no memory of their mission, he could just as well have sent them a map of where to look for him. No, his best chance to be left alone was to cooperate and lie, assuring them there was nothing to worry about.

So he racked his brains for an explanation of the unusual spike. It had to be something involving powerful magic, and something which an old man could conceivably be dabbling with. Then he suddenly remembered a long lost friend from many centuries ago. Putting his story together, he sighed theatrically.

“Well, it seems you’ve caught me red-handed, Kingsley.” The auror’s eyes narrowed slightly at the informal address but Merlin paid him no heed, rambling on as casually as ever. “My real name is… Murphy Taylor. You see, in my old age I’ve come to think a lot about death, and decided that it’s not really something for me. I’ve done some reading and concluded that a philosopher’s stone would solve my problem. So that’s what I’ve been doing out here, just some innocent experime-”

“Incarcerous!” Shacklebolt made a quick knotting motion with his wand and before a bewildered Merlin could finish his sentence, he fell to his knees, tripped by the ropes that had appeared out of nowhere to bind his body. “Grab him!”

Two aurors, a man and a woman, made their way toward him from the circle surrounding him and they each grabbed one of Merlin’s shoulders, holding his torso upright while Kingsley slowly approached him from the front.

“Did you really think we’d believe you’re working on this alone after last June?” he asked, stopping and looking down at Merlin with his eyebrows raised. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“You-know-who.”

“No I don’t,” said Merlin, genuinely bewildered.

He couldn’t mean Morgana; she was a _she_ , besides which it had been over a millennium since Merlin had killed her. The memory made him flinch in regret and he pushed it firmly from his mind. But who else could Kingsley mean?

Looking around at the other aurors for a hint, he saw how they all glanced at each other sceptically. Merlin’s gaze returned to the front as Shacklebolt took another step toward him.

“Playing the ignorant old man may have worked on the people in your village, but I doubt even a three year old would believe you were _that_ ignorant,” he said dismissively. “I’ll give you one final choice: either you tell us where he is now, or we bring you to the Ministry for further interrogation.” And as an afterthought, he added: “They may even authorise the use of veritaserum for this one, considering who you’re suspected of working for.”

Fear dug its claws into Merlin’s stomach. Whatever came next, veritaserum could not be part of it. He wouldn’t allow them to expose him. Throwing caution to the wind, Merlin silently began to calculate how best to escape his predicament while posing the least possible risk to the people around him.

A long silence fell over the clearing once more.

“Alright, you’re coming with us,” Kingsley finally said as time dragged on. He gestured for the aurors clutching Merlin’s shoulders to bring him to his feet.

“Fine, I’ll tell you where he is,” Merlin said quickly as he was painfully pulled upright by the arms. He locked eyes with Shacklebolt once more as he drew a deep breath. “He’s hiding here, in the forest. Just outside the clearing.”

His words had the most extraordinary effect on the previously stoic group of aurors. The grips on his arms tightened and all around him, anxious eyes immediately moved off of him to instead scan the treeline for any movement. Only Kingsley kept his full composure and without breaking eye contact with Merlin, he calmly instructed his team:

“Everyone, move out in pairs to search the area. Never leave each other’s side and stay vigilant for anything unusual. At the slightest sign of trouble, send up sparks and the others will come to your aid. I’ll stay here with you -” he briefly glanced up at the woman holding Merlin in place “- to guard the prisoner. All others, go!”

The circle of aurors scattered at his command, sending pairs of colourful figures hurriedly bobbing out across the yellow field. Soon Merlin was left alone with his two guards, still locked in his staring contest with Kingsley.

“If you’re lying, there will be consequences,” Kingsley warned.

Merlin’s smirk was hidden by his beard as he silently let his magic envelop him.

_Three… Two… One…_

The ropes binding him simply fell away and before either of the two wide-eyed aurors had time to react, they had whizzed like brown snakes through the air and wrapped themselves around the woman holding Merlin. As she fell like a log, Merlin quickly brought his right arm up to face Kingsley. He easily directed his magic to pull the wand from Kingsley's hand and it spun away through the air behind his back, clattering along the path as it landed far out of reach.

Fear flashed across Kingsley’s face for the briefest moment as he watched his wand go, but it was almost instantly replaced by a dangerous, stony expression. His leather shoes skidded against the path as he took off, hunching forward so his broad shoulders would line up with Merlin’s midriff. Instinctively, Merlin sent out a rather benign defensive spell to meet him half way.

The spell hit Kingsley square in the chest and he went flying backward through the air, just like his wand before him. But he flew too fast. Merlin could only watch in helpless horror as Kingsley’s head and torso crashed into the root of the fallen tree with considerable force.

_No!_

Ice radiated through his chest as Merlin hurried forward to where the auror had landed in a heap on the ground. Crouching beside him, he forced his mind to think practically, trying to recall what his great uncle and mentor Gaius, Court Healer of Camelot, had taught him all those centuries ago.

The first thing he noted was that he saw no blood. Good. Searching for a pulse just below the chin, Merlin let out a relieved sigh – he was still alive. But just as he was about to check the head for fractures, he heard voices yelling to each other from across the field.

Looking up, he saw several pairs of colourful aurors hurrying back through the grass, heading straight for where he was crouching. He lowered his gaze slightly and met the livid eyes of the auror he’d tied up in his own ropes. She wriggled in vain, wanting to come to the aid of her colleague but unable to get the ropes loose.

Though he felt obligated to stay and take care of Kingsley himself, he knew that doing so would only get him captured again. Reluctantly, he raised his palm one last time and directed it toward the bound auror. Her ropes unravelled and she instantly began to push herself out of them. But before she was able to free her arms enough to take aim at Merlin, he was gone.


	5. A Place to Stay

Returning to the house was not an option. The Ministry would no doubt have put all available resources to work fine-combing the woods by now, and Merlin didn’t particularly feel like betting his freedom on the half-arsed cloaking charms he’d cast around the cottage. Besides, he had work to do.

Something was seriously wrong with magic. First the uncontrolled blast after the nightmare, then failing to cook the egg, and now … Shivers ran down Merlin’s spine and arms and he clenched his fists compulsively as the moment Kingsley hit the tree replayed in his mind.

That spell didn’t have enough power to cause severe injuries, or at least not usually. His magic was suddenly volatile, and the ramifications were potentially lethal. He needed to get back control, and to do so fast. But how? Why was this even happening?

To find a solution, he needed to know what the problem was, and to find that out, he needed to do research. Only one place came to mind where he could both find the information he needed and do extensive research without drawing suspicion from the ministry. But to gain entrance there, he needed a thorough plan. And a makeover.

* * *

***

* * *

That evening London’s streets were as busy as ever. The roads were packed with cars barely moving and pavements were overrun with people of all shapes and sizes, all hurrying past each other to get home a few moments quicker than anyone else. In other words, it was the perfect place for an old man to disappear.

Merlin kept to one side of the pavement, occasionally bumping against walls and shop fronts as people squeezed past him. Despite their hurry people regularly threw glances his direction, no doubt trying to figure out who the strangely dressed old man with the long hair and beard was. Ignoring their interest and struggling to concentrate through the unaccustomed onslaught of loud noises and bright lights, Merlin arched his back to see what shops lay ahead of him over the heads of the bustling crowd. After walking for what seemed like an age even to him, he finally spotted what he was after.

An hour and a half later Merlin stepped back out onto the street, but had anyone noticed him go in, they wouldn’t recognise the man that came back out. Merlin’s beard was gone, a short stubble the only trace it had ever existed. His white hair now ended at his shoulders, and was topped with a dark, wide-brimmed fedora. The old clothes were gone too, replaced by a long trench coat, dark pants and leather boots more appropriate for the current century.

Despite the shop assistant assuring Merlin several times that the boots were indeed ‘his size’, they squeezed awkwardly on his feet in places he wasn’t used to. Thoroughly uncomfortable in his new getup and senses still whirring in response to all the novel perceptions competing for his attention, he once more began to shuffle along the now slightly less busy city streets.

* * *

***

* * *

By the time the grubby front of the old pub came into view, he was absolutely exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that it wasn’t until he was a foot away from the door that he noticed the two robed figures standing either side of it. His blood ran cold, only now realising that of course the Ministry would increase security in important locations if they thought a dangerous criminal was on the loose.

But his fear quickly subsided as he looked closer at the aurors’ young, shadowy faces. They had both fallen asleep, slumped back against the rotting wood panelling with their heads at strange angles. Grinning to himself, Merlin pushed the door open and stepped inside the Leaky Cauldron.

As the door swung shut behind him, he would have welcomed a dampening of the noise from the street, letting the gentle murmur of travellers and shop owners conversing over pints of ale take its place. But, knowing his luck today, he really shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

If anything, the pub was louder than the street outside, filled to the brim as it was with people talking excitedly in raised voices. Their loud chaotic chatter quickly wore away at the last shreds of Merlin’s stamina and bolstered the headache building in his forehead.

Quickly stepping back and colliding painfully with a wall to avoid being run over by a man wearing a pointed hat, Merlin decided that that was the safest place to stay while he got his bearings on the place. The crowd swelled and swirled like an ocean as people moved from group to group, taking each other’s seats whenever someone got up to move. Adding to the turmoil, each table was jam-packed with people all holding large pints. But their foamy contents lay forgotten, because every mouth and ear was thoroughly engrossed in eager conversation:

“I heard he took out half the Ministry’s aurors with a single spell.”

“No, more than half!”

“Apparently ten people ended up in St. Mungo’s.”

“What, you mean he let them _live_?”

“And he’s old as well, dabbles in some pretty ancient dark magic.”

“He must be a pureblood, having knowledge of such things!”

“Were pro’lly chummies with Black before ‘e went down.”

Though Merlin knew news would eventually spread, he hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. He turned up his coat collar and pulled his new hat low to obscure his face. Then he began pushing his way toward the bar. The sea of people parted readily before him to let him pass through, seeing as most people already seemed to be in motion.

Arriving at the bar, Merlin looked around for the innkeeper and spotted him chatting to a group of people some distance along the counter. He cleared his throat loud enough for the walnut-looking man to hear, and got a reply in the form of a raised finger. Once the keeper had finished his story and received a hearty laugh in return, he made his way over to Merlin.

“I’d like a room,” Merlin said abruptly before the man had time to prompt him, hoping to get out of the chaos as quickly as possible.

“Right.” The walnut turned around and grabbed a key from the rack on the wall. But just as he handed the key to Merlin, the front door opened again. Silence fell over the pub as the door clicked shut and whoever had entered spoke in an authoritative voice:

“Could I please have all of your attention!”

Merlin slowly turned around along with everyone else, hat still pulled low over his face. Under the brim he could just make out a proud-looking woman in dark robes with grey hair tied up in an elaborate hairdo. A pair of bright orange glasses rested on her chest, presumably held up by a string around her neck. Behind her stood the two aurors from outside, both looking sheepish yet occasionally throwing annoyed glances at the woman before them.

“I am Martha Muggins, head of the Department for Unusual Magical Occurrences at the Ministry of Magic, and I am responsible for the coordination of the Ministry’s efforts to catch the assailant responsible for the attack on ministry personnel which took place early this morning,” Martha Muggins said very loudly and very quickly, finally stopping to draw a deep breath.

While she spoke Merlin had moved to join the group crowded around the nearest table. Taking the only vacant seat, his line of sight was now obscured by both his hat and the backs of several heads. Still, he saw the Muggins woman pause for a moment to glance around at the expectant faces of her listeners. Then she continued speaking at a slightly slower pace, but still just as loudly.

“As of yet, we have not apprehended any suspect, but the Ministry is working tirelessly to find the culprit. I have come to inform you that there is no cause for general alarm, and that the safety of magical folk is being continually monitored by the Ministry. You will be swiftly informed should the situation change.”

“Now, our suspect is a man in his eighties or older. He wears a jacket and boots made of leather, trousers of a dark brown fabric, a blue shirt, and he has a red cloth tied around his neck. His hair and beard are long and white. If anyone should have any information …”

“I know who he is!” hollered a man sitting only three seats away from the warlock.

Merlin’s heart plummeted through the stone floor – he couldn’t do anything to defend himself here, not with his magic the way it was and this many people around. He’d walked himself into the one trap that could actually catch him –

“He’s the nutter in charge of Hogwarts!” the man finished triumphantly, earning him some laughter and a few whoops from the crowd.

Merlin let out a long breath and Martha’s pale cheeks turned slightly pink, but she quickly shot back:

“Thank you for your input, Mr. Fletcher. We could arrange for some aurors to come around your house this evening to take your statement. And I’m sure Arthur Weasley of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office will be available too, should the need arise. Would that be agreeable?”

“Uh … nuh. I’m fine,” mumbled a disgruntled Mundungus Fletcher, to an even greater uproar and scattered applause. Martha waited for the crowd to calm on its own before she finished off her statement.

“As I was saying, if you or anyone you know has information you think could aid the search in any way, please do inform us as quickly as possible. And again, I would like to reiterate that you can feel completely safe while staying here. The ministry has aurors such as these -” Martha gestured back at the people standing behind her and they both inclined their heads, neither looking not all that pleased with their assignment “- posted in places of importance to the magical community across the country, and they are ready to act should any problems arise. I thank you for your attention, and wish you all a pleasant evening.”

And with that, she gave a quick bow and turned on her heel, disappearing out the door as suddenly as she had come. The crowd watched her go, then shifted their attention to the aurors still left standing in her wake.

“Well … er … Yeah. We’ll be outside …” one of them mumbled, trailing off. The two young aurors hurried out the door too, eager not to be stood in the limelight.

The tense silence didn’t last long. Talk soon began to fill the pub and grew even louder than before, to the point of people having to shout to get themselves heard. The ocean of people began to swirl again too, making it seem like the room was swaying from side to side.

And in the middle of it all sat Merlin, heart pumping furiously. He got up from his seat and walked over to the staircase leading up to the inn’s rooms. Climbing it seemed no less demanding than climbing a mountain, and the corridor to his room appeared to never end.

Finally he found his door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. A few more steps and he crashed headlong onto the bed, still fully dressed, exhaling slowly. His anxiousness fought a losing battle with his exhaustion, and eventually his eyelids drifted shut. And, finally, after a night and a day which had fully turned his entire comfortable existence on its head, Merlin Slept.


	6. Peckish Warlocks and Vain Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big **thank you** to everyone who has - and will - read and interact with on this story! I won't answer any comments personally because keeping track would only make me stressed, but please know that I read every single one and knowing people enjoy what I write puts a big smile on my face :)
> 
> Quotes from the book (Chamber of Secrets) are _*marked with astersisks*_

By late morning the next day Diagon Alley was bustling with life. Merlin still felt the many noises grinding at his ears, but with a good night’s sleep behind him it didn’t bother him as much. At first he moved cautiously through the street, careful not to draw attention to himself, but soon he relaxed and picked up the pace seeing as no one paid him any attention.

He made his way past cafés and shops selling everything from pets to flying broomsticks until he reached the towering white wizarding bank. As per usual, a goblin stood to one side of its large bronze doors. Merlin greeted him with a nod as he pulled a door open, and the goblin leaned forward in a polite bow. But suddenly he snapped out of his bow to give merlin a strange look. Pretending not to notice, Merlin continued on inside.

Passing through the second pair of silver doors felt like stepping back in time. Not much had changed since Merlin last set foot in Gringotts two centuries ago; the same ceilings vaulted high above the large marble hall, where goblins were already busy showing people through the numerous doors along the walls, and the same long counter held just as many goblins busily counting coins and precious stones.

The goblins seemed to sense his presence as Merlin approached the counter. Their heads turned from their tasks to eye the newcomer curiously, but once again Merlin ignored their attention.

“Hello,” he greeted the goblin before him. “I would like to make a withdrawal from my vault.” From his coat pocket he produced a small and battered key which he placed on the counter.

The goblin picked up the key and held it up to his desk light to study it. Nodding contentedly, he turned to one of his co-workers and spoke a few words in a guttural tongue. The co-worker glanced at Merlin (who frowned back) before he answered in the same language. With a curt nod, the goblin slid from his tall seat and motioned for Merlin to follow him.

They walked in silence through one of the side doors and into the cool stone tunnel. At a whistle from the goblin a cart raced to their side; they both climbed in and were swiftly whisked away at an alarming speed.

When they arrived at the vault a short while later, Merlin felt nauseous. Thanking himself for waiting some centuries to get an account so he didn’t have to go any further, he stumbled out of the cart and supported himself against a wall while the goblin opened the heavy door.

Inside was mostly empty, a few stacks of golden coins on a circular side table the only currency present. Against the far wall leaned what appeared to be a walking stick, its coiling length unremarkable except for the smooth branches at its head, swirling tightly around a large transparent orb. His Sidhe staff.

Taking a bracing breath, Merlin let go of the moist wall and moved to get the money off the table.

“You practice the magic of the old religion,” said the goblin suddenly. It wasn’t a question.

Merlin stopped gathering coins to look around.

“And so do you,” he answered. The goblin smirked.

“It is the custom of my kind,” he said disinterestedly. “But not of yours – not anymore. Tell me, wizard, how did you learn it?”

“It was a long time ago,” Merlin deflected, resuming his gathering.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. But you do more than practice it, you are _of it_. Me and my colleagues sensed your signature as you entered.”

Merlin paused again.

“So that’s why you were talking about me,” he said accusingly. Hoping to end the goblin’s line of questioning, he added. “My father practised it. He passed the gift on to me.”

“Who taught him?” asked the goblin, accepting his explanation yet still determined to know more.

“Apparently we’re descended from druids,” Merlin offered, annoyed at his persistence.

“Druids? It’s been a long time since they were last – are you alright?” he asked abruptly.

Merlin had suddenly leaned forward, one hand pressed to his chest while the other clutched the table. For a moment, a sharp pain had slashed through his chest, as if he’d been stabbed, but almost as soon as it came it was gone. He straightened gingerly, but felt no lingering pain.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Just can’t stand those carts.”

“Not many people can,” said the goblin, and Merlin could hear the glee in his voice.

Silence reigned once more as Merlin scraped the last coins into his pockets and retrieved the magical staff from the wall, stashing it inside his long coat. The cart journey back was just as unpleasant as the one before, but the promise of fresh air at the end made it bearable.

In the marble hall the goblin gave a slight bow as they parted, then hurried back to his place on the counter. Glancing back as he made for the exit, Merlin saw him talking discretely to his neighbours.

_They had better believe me._

Merlin made a brief stop in the space between the silver and bronze doors, pulling the staff from inside his coat. He hesitated a moment to make doubly sure his magic felt as it should after the sudden pain, then mumbled a quick spell and the staff shrunk and morphed.

By the end it was about ten inches long and the orb had been almost entirely absorbed into the wood, a small glimmer at the end of the stick the only sign it was there. Relieved his magic had worked without a hitch, Merlin stashed his creation inside one of his already very heavy pockets.

There, now he had a wand. Just everything else to go.

* * *

***

* * *

By early afternoon, Merlin was making his way to Flourish and Blotts to get some books on more recent wizarding history. On his back hung a brand-new rucksack containing quills, ink and parchment, a cauldron and various potion ingredients. In his hand he held an ice-cream he had bought further up the road. It was incredibly sweet and freezing cold, but he thoroughly enjoyed the taste and the cold felt soothing against the heat of the summer sun.

Re-energized, he finished the last of it as the book shop came into view. And it was lucky he did, because outside the door a crowd had gathered, and Merlin was sure they would not have shown much consideration for peckish warlocks and their snacks. They were all pressing to get inside past a small wizard continuously urging them all to ‘calm down’.

Keeping close to the wall, Merlin managed to push his way inside rather quickly despite the jostling, and soon he discovered the source of the commotion. Really, he couldn’t have missed it; an elaborate display stood at the back of the shop, a desk at its centre. Behind the desk sat a square-jawed man with blue eyes and golden blond hair.

Merlin started and his heart leapt as, for a split second, he really thought he’d seen his best friend, alive and well, sitting in a magical bookshop happily signing books for excited witches and wizards. But reality came crashing down on him all too soon as he looked closer at the man and the glaring inaccuracies jumped out at him.

The man wore light blue robes paired with a matching wizards hat, which had been purposely placed at a slight angle atop his golden locks. The getup was almost comically distinct from Arthur’s, and had Merlin awoken Arthur to the sight of those clothes, he would no doubt have been thrown in the stocks for at least a week.

But the greatest difference between this man and Arthur, discounting the magic, had to be the display he was sat in. On all sides he was surrounded by large images of his own face, each one beaming and winking charmingly at the crowd. Arthur had never derived joy from boasting or basking in the admiration of his people – he had been far too busy worrying whether he’d done enough to earn their respect; wondering if there really was nothing more he could do to help his citizens.

Scowling at the hateful man, Merlin turned his mind to searching for interesting books. Near the back of the shop (quite close to the obnoxious display) he came upon a sign which promised books on ‘Modern Wizarding Society’. He scanned the spines for noteworthy titles, pulling a few books from the shelf.

A minor scuffle broke out somewhere to his left, but Merlin paid it no mind. That is, until he heard a loud exclamation of, *It _can’t_ be Harry Potter?*

Poking his head out from the aisle, Merlin was pushed back as the sea of people parted, letting the goldilocks-man dart forward to grab the arm of a bespectacled young boy with unruly, jet-black hair. He dragged the obviously reluctant boy up to his desk and made a show of shaking his hand for a photographer, who eagerly snapped picture after picture. The rate at which the flash went off created a thick cloud of purple smoke, enveloping the immediate crowd and making several people (including Merlin) cough.

Merlin fought to stop his coughing fit and finally caught sight of young Harry again. By now his face had turned bright red from the unwanted attention, but the man still showed no signs of letting him go. In fact, he had clasped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, preventing him from leaving while he himself chatted on about some important announcement or other he had to make.

_This needs to stop._

In a glance, Merlin quickly identified the best target for his spell. Balancing his books in one hand, he whispered a few words in the old tongue and directed the spell with his fingers at one of the large pictures behind the pair.

A deadly silence fell over the crowd, rippling back from the display as people saw what he had done. Bewildered, not-Arthur looked around at them with raised eyebrows. Then he looked around and, just like everyone else, stared silently up at the monstrous creature suddenly inhabiting one of his portraits.

His face was covered in colourful shapes, and his overlarge eyes slowly revolved in opposite directions. From the sides of his head sprouted two long donkey’s ears, and the portrait seemingly struggled to keep its jaw clenched shut. In the end, its mouth fell open, and across the silent book shop echoed a solitary, “HE – HAAW.”

Tumultuous laughter broke out all around. Horrified, the blond man immediately released the boy and scrambled to get the image down, simultaneously attempting to regain control of the situation with flustered outbursts.

Harry quickly rushed back toward the crowd, too relieved to laugh. As he went, Merlin managed to catch his eye. The old man gave a friendly wink, and the last he saw of the boy before he disappeared was a relieved smile.

Looking up at his handiwork, Merlin joined in the crowd’s amusement with a chuckle. He hadn’t meant to actually make the image bray, but he supposed that particular memory of Arthur was still too vivid to subdue.

Something small pushed past his hip and Merlin almost dropped the books balanced in his hand. A pale blond boy, looking about the same age as Harry, was shoving his way through the crowd. Barely had Merlin taken a step to the side to regain his balance before his shoulders received the same treatment, this time from a grown man with the same pale shade of hair. His dark robes flowed in his wake, making him appear larger than he was, and he had a frosty, arrogant way about him which made Merlin shiver.

Deciding he’d had enough of suffocating crowds and arrogant blondes for one day, Merlin went up to the counter to pay for his reading. But he placed his books down, a loud noise once more drew his attention to the area by the display.

The icy man was staggering back and had knocked over the bookshelf Merlin just left, pushed by another man; a ginger. Panic ensued as people rushed to get out of their way. More bookshelves went flying and people around the two brawlers were shouting. A woman’s voice cried, *No, Arthur, no!*

The name made Merlin start once more and he scoured the crowd for its source. He spotted the ginger woman standing off to the side, surrounded by what had to be her and ‘Arthur’s’ children. They all wore horrified expressions, except for a pair of twin boys who seemed to be having the time of their lives. Beside them stood two terrified-looking muggles, each tightly clasping the shoulder of a girl with bushy brown hair. And at the front of the group stood Harry.

Pitying the boy who couldn’t seem to get a break, Merlin once more looked around to see if he could do anything to help. But before he could think of something, an absolute giant of a man had approached the two fighters. He effortlessly pulled them apart by the backs of their robes, as if they were nothing but two kittens playing rough.

Scowling, the blond man tossed a book he was holding at the youngest ginger child, a girl, before twisting himself free from the giant’s grip. He motioned for his son to join him and the two quickly slipped from the shop.

Satisfied the situation was dealt with, Merlin turned back to the man behind the counter. The poor bloke looked completely empty, staring mutely out across his toppled bookshelves and trampled books. Not wanting to bother him further, Merlin placed his money on the counter, adding some sympathetic coins to his total. Then he too left the devastated book shop.

* * *

***

* * *

Merlin returned to his room early that evening, having downed a sizable dinner. Though he was tired, it was nothing like he’d felt yesterday – and lucky that, seeing as he still had work to do.

He sat down at the small desk in the corner of his room and from his bag he pulled a quill, some ink and a piece of parchment. Taking a few moments to think of the best way to start his letter, he began to write.

Merlin read and re-read what he had written over and over, making absolutely sure that he hadn’t missed anything and that nothing about the letter seemed off. Finally satisfied everything was in order, he got up and walked over to the cage placed on his chest of drawers. Inside sat perched a beautiful short-eared owl.

The owl’s deep brown feather coat was spattered with lighter browns and beiges, the latter colours bleeding into and becoming dominant across his chest and stomach. The lighter coloured facial disk swivelled around at Merlin’s approach and the bird stared up at Merlin with vividly yellow eyes. Merlin smiled back down at him.

“I’ve got a job for you, Arthur,” he said, taking immense pleasure in the statement.

The cage door screeched as it swung open and the small bird accepted Merlin’s offered arm as a perch, stepping out of his confinement and rustling his feathers. Two little feather tufts perked atop Arthur’s head and he looked curiously around the cramped room. Merlin handed him his letter and eagerly he clamped it in his little beak.

Humid air rolled lazily into the room as Merlin opened the window on the far wall. The weight on his arm increased for a moment as the owl extended his wide wings and took off, pushing down with his claws. Merlin watched as he went, quickly rising high above the city rooftops. Soon he was no more than a speck in the pale evening sky, and a short while later he had completely disappeared into the distance.

Leaving the window open for ventilation, the warlock retreated to the bed to bury his nose in one of his new books. He only hoped his application wouldn't come too late for the new term.


	7. A Matter of Honesty

The rather large room where he was sitting was very strange indeed. First of all, it was completely round; enclosed by a single wall curved in a near perfect circle. Merlin knew the wall had to be made of stone just like the rest of the castle, but was unable to verify the fact because every inch of it was covered by either looming bookshelves or large portraits of sleeping witches and wizards. Their snoring mingled with huffs, puffs, clicks and pops from the many peculiar silver appliances placed on spindly tables all around the room.

By the door at the other end of the room stood a vacated golden bird perch; presumably its owl was out delivering some important message or other. Directly to Merlin’s right sat a fireplace, which too was thankfully empty. Had it been lit, Merlin might have finally lost his battle with the summer heat and melted away into a puddle, especially in his dense new marine-blue robes. While he looked around the peculiar room his hand went up to absentmindedly scratch the side of his neck. Without his dear old neckerchief he felt almost naked in the vast unfamiliar space; dwarfed, vulnerable and alone, like a lamb lined up for the slaughter.

He’d only had to wait a day for the reply to his letter, and the interview had been set for the day after that. The rapid turnaround had not left much time to spare, but with careful planning he had still managed to both catch up on the last hundred years of history and prepare the de-aging potion he’d figured out how to brew some centuries ago.

Merlin now looked to be in his late twenties, not his thousands, once more sporting black hair, smooth skin and bright blue eyes. He felt different too. His joints no longer ached and his youthful energy had returned; his mind was clearer and memories more vivid than they had been for centuries. Silently he berated himself for falling out of the habit of brewing the potion for everyday use.

The paintings kept on snoring and the machines kept puffing while he waited. The monotonous sounds were grating, but with time they began to reveal nuances; rhythmic melodies woven into a delicate musical tapestry too complex for any earthly being to understand.

As even more time passed and nothing in the room changed, Merlin’s senses began to turn in on themselves. He became increasingly aware of how his limbs were folded; the way the floor pressed up against the sole of one foot; the other suspended in mid-air, weightless. His arms grew into heavy weights, pressing down on his stomach and his ears began to ring.

Merlin’s eyes glazed over as they glided across the cluttered space once again. A strange sort of feeling was dawning on him, serene yet somehow restless, and with it came a frightening sense of unreality. It suddenly struck him how improbable his entire situation was. So much had changed in so little time; in a few days he had gone from living in complete isolation to being the primary topic of conversation throughout the wizarding world.

Maybe none of it had actually happened. Could it all have been a dream, just like the one with Arthur? Maybe he wasn’t even here, and all he thought he could see and feel was just his imagination. Slowly, the objects around him grew impossibly distant; they were no longer tangible things, rather abstract depictions of a reality somewhere beyond his reach. He was floating weightless in space … if he reached out to touch something, all he would feel was his hand falling through thin air …

His head snapped back around, facing the door at the other end of the room as the high-pitched grating of the aged doorknob burst his bubble. A sharp _crack_ echoed through the room and a jolt radiated through Merlin’s bones as the front legs of his heavy chair (which he didn’t realise he had been balancing) crashed back to the hard stone floor. He suppressed a wince. That was _not_ how to appear mature or professional.

The sound drew the gaze of the bearded man in the doorway, pale-blue eyes locking onto Merlin from behind their halfmoon spectacles. The now deafening silence stretched beyond its proper proportions as Merlin met their scrutiny head-on, fighting the mad urge to sink lower in the high-backed chair where he knew he should not be sitting.

The eternity lasted only a moment before there was an unreadable shift somewhere in the depths of the intense eyes and Dumbledore’s face broke into a smile, visible only by the slight curve of his moustache and the crinkles around his inscrutable eyes.

“Ah,” he said softly, finally looking down at the papers in his hand. “Mr. Lake, you are most welcome.”

Merlin tried to shake the feeling that this man could expose deceit and reverse disguises with a glance as the headmaster stepped fully into the room. He shot out of the chair, stumbling on the hem of his robes while hurriedly blathering, “Headmaster! I’m so sorry I -”

But he stopped dead. Once he had regained his balance, his eyes had been quick to once more find Professor Dumbledore, but then they slid sideways and he spotted the man who was entering the room behind him.

Merlin stared, struggling to draw a proper breath.

“Mr. Lake,” Dumbledore said amusedly, mistaking Merlin’s shock for amazement rather than horror. “May I introduce you to my very good friend, Nicolas Flamel.”

The white-haired, beardless and wizened Flamel met Merlin’s wide eyes with a mystified expression, the innumerable wrinkles around his kind grey eyes accentuated in a slight frown. Silence hung thick in the air for several long moments as the two men appraised each other, neither entirely sure of what to do.

Finally, the apparently elder man held out a hand. Pulling himself from his stupor, Merlin schooled his features into a guarded expression and moved cautiously forward to shake it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Flamel,” he said in a would-be casual voice.

“You too, Mr _._ _Lake_ ,” said Nicolas in his familiar French accent, putting an almost imperceptible emphasis on the last name. Merlin felt his cheeks grow warm, but gave no conscious acknowledgement of the gesture. His eyes moved willingly back to Dumbledore as the headmaster spoke once more.

“Mr. Flamel arrived from Paris earlier today to aid with some Ministry business, and he has kindly agreed to help me with your interview before we move on to London. Ordinarily I consider myself quite well versed in wizarding history, but I find no amount of reading can compete with a lived experience. Or wouldn’t you say so, Nicolas?”

“Yes, experience is certainly a great teacher,” asserted Flamel, his eyes moving back to Merlin and giving him a significant look. Merlin mumbled something inarticulate but vaguely affirmative, his eyes dropping to the floor; he felt sure by now his cheeks had turned a vivid shade of Camelot scarlet.

As they turned to move further into the room, Nicolas caught Merlin’s eye behind Dumbledore’s back. He tilted his head slightly in question, but wary eyes and a shake of the head was all the response Merlin could muster before they arrived at the desk and Dumbledore turned back around, taking a seat in his newly vacated chair. He placed his stack of papers on the table and made himself comfortable in his seat. Only then did he seem to realise that the other two were still standing.

“Oh, you’ll need …” From his robes he pulled a wand, and with an elegant swish he conjured two seats; one fluffy armchair to his right, and a padded wooden chair facing him from across the desk. Merlin and Flamel took their respective seats, Merlin decidedly looking anywhere but at his old acquaintance.

_Come on, Merlin. Just ignore him._

He needed to concentrate on the task at hand; his entire plan hinged on what happened next, and he could not afford to mess it up. But he found it very hard to focus past the old man eyeing him intently from the side-lines, and panicked thoughts kept poking at him from every direction.

He could only think of one reason why the Ministry would be interested in Flamel, but if they found out that their readings did in fact not come from the making of a philosopher’s stone but were rather a powerful blast of old magic, he ran the risk of discovery. And as he had already established when he encountered the aurors, that was _not_ an option.

“So, young man,” Dumbledore finally addressed Merlin when they had all settled in their seats. Despite his best efforts to ignore Flamel, Merlin noticed how the corner of his mouth twitched. “You would like to take up the position as History of magic Professor?”

Unsure if it was a question or statement, Merlin decided to answer anyway.

“Yes,” he said. Realising how redundant it sounded, he quickly threw around for something to add. “History has always seemed so … alive … to me.”

There was a sharp cough to Dumbledore’s right and the headmaster turned to frown at Flamel. He held up a hand in apology, though Merlin suspected it was also to cover the grin which had momentarily flashed across his face.

“Indeed, indeed,” mused Dumbledore with a slight edge to his voice, critical of what he took to be Flamel’s self-indulgence. Turning back to face Merlin, he shuffled through the papers he had brought, spreading a few of them out across his desk. “I see you’ve recently moved back from Iceland. How come you didn’t take up a position there?”

“Well …” Merlin paused to gather his thoughts before his anxious tongue could do any more tell-tale blabbing. He had thought it best to give them something to blame in case he was unfamiliar with any of the more recent wizarding customs, or if they ever caught him using one of the old tongues. He figured being raised abroad by a British wizarding couple should fit the purpose rather well (the past was a different country, after all). “Once I finished my history studies, I wanted to come work somewhere I could keep learning. Hogwarts was the first place that came to mind.”

_And I mean, it’s not even a lie, really. ‘Experience is the best teacher’, indeed._

Though fortunately Flamel didn’t catch the double meaning to his words this time, or if he did, he was at least able to keep his composure.

“Certainly no place is better suited to learning than a school,” Dumbledore agreed, sitting back in his chair. But a frown came upon his face as he continued, “Yet your application has come rather late. The students’ book lists have already been sent out, so should you be given the position you would have to make do with the materials prescribed by our current professor.”

Though not unkind, Dumbledore’s tone made it plain that this time he did expect an explanation, and Merlin was all too happy to provide the answer he had been repeating to himself ever since his train had left London.

“That won’t be a problem. I apologise for my lateness, but my mother has taken ill and I wanted to be sure her condition was stable before taking a position so far away from home.”

“I see.” The kind smile returned and the headmaster’s eyes softened, a twinkle coming into them. “In that case I wish her and your family well, and hope for her rapid recovery.”

Merlin returned his smile and thanked him for the kind words, trying to ignore the hollow squirming in his gut. Back in Camelot the harmless fib would have felt … well, if not effortless, then at least habitual. Here, however, he wasn’t so at ease.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it was just him and Dumbledore, but now he had an audience; Nicolas sat silently by, observing and judging his every move. He knew enough about Merlin to know exactly when and how he lied, and Merlin wasn’t sure how long he could trust him to play along with the deceit; when they parted long ago it hadn’t been on the best of terms, to put it mildly.

Merlin was at the mercy of his old acquaintance’s good will. A single misplaced word or slip of the tongue was all it took for Dumbledore to notice something was off, and he didn’t strike Merlin as the sort of man to let an anomaly pass by without notice. He would demand an explanation, and that was a slippery slope Merlin couldn’t allow himself to think about for any length of time if he wanted to keep his cool.

The interview went on with Dumbledore asking about his previous work experience and further looking to confirm his suitability for the position. Soon the questioning evolved into deeper discussion about prominent historical events, touching on everything from goblin rebellions and giant wars to warlock conventions and (Merlin shifted uncomfortably in his seat) witch hunts. Several times Merlin had to catch himself from referring to people by their nicknames or speaking in first person about events he had witnessed.

Every now and then Flamel would cut in during Dumbledore’s interrogation with a question or two of his own, or occasionally ask for a clarification during Merlin’s responses. Mostly he asked about things he knew Merlin was familiar with, and at first Merlin wasn’t sure if it was meant to help him or to catch him out. As the interview went on, however, he concluded that it had to be the former; Nicolas was deliberately directing the interview to the subjects where Merlin was most adept, while also leading them away from topics he knew he would rather not discuss.

They talked on and on, digging for the most minute details on a wide array of events until finally Dumbledore leaned back in his chair.

“I think that should do, unless you Nicolas have anything to add?” he asked, looking over at his friend. At Flamel’s shake of the head, he continued, “Then, Mr. Lake, if you have any further questions, I shall gladly enlighten you with the answer … provided I have it of course.”

Looking past the patronising undertone, Merlin took a moment to think.

“How come you’re looking for a new professor?” he asked.

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore sighed. “Our current professor, Mr. Binns, has been up for reconsideration for many years following the students’ persistent complaints of his dreary lectures. Professor Binns is the ghost of the man formerly given the position, and has taught most every Hogwarts graduate alive today. Alas, he has regrettably failed to inspire any of them with a passion for the subject. You are, in fact, the first and only person to have so much as sent an application.”

For all the tension and doubt that had built up in him over the course of the interview, a spark of optimism ignited in Merlin’s chest; maybe, for all that had gone wrong in the last few days, this one thing would work out in his favour.

“Right,” he said, trying not to sound too enthused. To that effect, he hesitated slightly before asking, “And when can I expect a decision?”

At that, the headmaster’s smile returned.

“Oh, Nicolas and I must find the time outside of our Ministry business to take the matter up with my deputy headmistress, but I should expect to send out an owl within the week. However, were I to take a stroll in your shoes, I wouldn’t be too worried; I think we can both agree you’ve done exceptionally well here today, young man.”

Merlin glanced over at Nicolas, who nodded in agreement with Dumbledore’s words, though the mystified look once more clouded his eyes.

“Well then. If that is all, I would like to thank you very much for coming -”

“Just one more thing. Could I please have a moment alone with Mr. Flamel?”

Dumbledore lowered himself back into his chair, eyebrows raised in surprise. He looked over at his old friend once more, who gave a curt nod in reply.

“Very well. You can have -” the headmaster pulled a curious pocket watch from his robes and studied its extraordinarily numerous hands “- no more than ten minutes, or else we’ll be late for our meeting at the Ministry.” He stood, and with a polite nod to each of his guests he moved swiftly from the room.

No sooner had the door closed behind him than Flamel spoke in a tense voice.

“So, Mr. _Lake_ … per chance a reference to a certain lady?”

But time didn’t permit Merlin the luxury of subtlety.

“What are you doing here, Nicolas?” he shot, dropping all pretence. Nicolas frowned back at him.

“Perhaps I would ask you the same, Monsieur ‘I return in a week’.”

Merlin winced.

“I’m sorry for the way I left, but you knew what I thought about your experiments -”

“And you know what Perenelle and me thought, still you are so sure you know our life better than us? When you never returned we worried what happened to you. You know I finally managed the creation of the stone in the week you were supposed to be gone? I wanted to show it to you, so you would know you were no longer alone, but you would not let us find you. For years we looked for you, asked people and travelled to places you mentioned, but there was never a trace. And now without warning I walk in to find you sitting here, unharmed and talking as if nothing happened, and you just expect me to play along with your game of hide and seek?” Words seemed to fail Flamel as he made small exasperated gestures with his bony hands. Finally giving up on trying to find a strong enough turn of phrase, he settled back in his armchair and shook his head tiredly.

Merlin also found words hard to come by as shame rose in his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again as a lump settled in his throat near his Adam’s apple, rendering him unable to speak.

“I …” he trailed off. “I really am so sorry, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch while you and your wife commit to something I would not wish on my worst enemy. And you didn’t need to worry about me, you know I can’t -”

“You think your death is the only thing that could make us worry?” Nicolas exclaimed, once more finding his voice and making Merlin flinch. “You could still be hurt in other ways. Your immortality does not prevent you from feeling _pain_. It’s no wonder your king called you an idiot, because that is what you are!”

“Please don’t shout!” Merlin pleaded quickly, hoping that Dumbledore was not standing right outside the door.

But Flamel wasn’t done, though he continued in a slightly lower but more intense voice, “and immortality has not brought misery to me or Perenelle. It simply gave us life – the good with the bad. It gave us each other. But the stone is gone now, so you will have your will in the end.”

His last words hung heavy in the air, their weight swinging ominously back and forth like a pendulum between the two men. Merlin once more found words lacking for the sentiments he wanted to express, but he feared that if he didn’t speak, the silence would grow too thick for him to breathe.

“I have said I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “And I wish I could do more, but even I don’t have the power to change the past.”

Flamel kept watching him intently, but he seemed to have gotten what he needed off his chest.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Merlin went on, pausing to close his eyes; the weight of what he was about to say was not lost on him, but it was crucial that Flamel understood. “But I need your help -”

“If you expect me to just forget -”

“That is not what I said,” shot back Merlin bitterly.

They gave each other appraising looks. As the seconds ticked by, the tension slowly dissipated until Merlin felt it safe to continue.

“I know I’m asking a lot, especially after what I did, but I’m not asking you to do it for me. I believe magic itself is in danger, and I think it involves this business you’re supposed to be helping the Ministry with.” He paused for a moment to assess Flamel’s reaction. Seeing nothing but the same stony expression, he continued, “Four days ago I noticed there was something wrong with my magic …”

He told Flamel all that had happened since then. About the blast that had awoke him and his encounter with the aurors, including him using the philosopher’s stone as an excuse and what he had inadvertently done to Kingsley. He told him about the pain he’d experienced at Gringotts and finally he explained the plan he had come up with to figure out what was wrong.

All the while Flamel remained stone-faced and motionless, the slow pumping of his chest the only sign he was still alive. Once Merlin finished, there was another silence.

“And now you want me to lie to the Ministry, to tell them this reading they have is indicative of someone making a philosopher’s stone?” Flamel said in a dead-flat tone, giving Merlin no clue as to his actual opinion on the matter. Reckoning Flamel wouldn’t cut him any slack for even a single word out of line, Merlin measured his response carefully.

“If you would, I would be eternally grateful.”

A small smirk finally broke Flamel’s stony exterior, though it appeared more bemused than amused.

“Eternity is a big word from someone who cannot die,” he remarked.

“As well you know,” agreed Merlin. “And I don’t say it lightly.”

“But it does strike me how easy it is for you to get the Ministry working for and not against you,” Nicolas said, stone returning to his features. “You are asking me to lie when one word of truth from you would have people kneeling at your feet.”

“I’m not telling them who I am,” said Merlin flatly.

“Then why should I lie? How can you say this is not a personal favour when it so clearly is?”

Merlin looked down at the floor, taking a deep breath.

“Because,” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair and locking eyes with Flamel to thwart the dread building in his chest. “Whatever I say, whatever I do, I have to live with it. Forever. If people find out who I am, they will measure me against this renowned powerful sorcerer who can do anything. But I’m not him. Keeping the secret is the only way for people to see _me_ – the boy from Ealdor, not their prophesied saviour or the legendary warlock. And if I can’t have me, then I honestly don’t know if I have anything left.” Merlin realised his eyes were growing damp and hurried to pat them dry with the sleeve of his robes.

Nicolas observed him silently from his armchair. His grey eyes met Merlin’s blue and the intensity of the look was suffocating. For the first time in centuries, Merlin felt like he was being seen. Not just looked at, not just viewed the way you might view a display in a shopfront window; lazily and from behind a pane of glass, searching only for something of interest. No, when Nicolas looked at him now, he didn’t pick and choose; he didn’t weigh Merlin against his own goals and desires. He simply saw it all. And of all people, Merlin knew Nicolas would understand.

“Alright,” said Flamel finally. “Even if I don’t agree your decision is the best one, I will grant you the courtesy you did not allow me and let you decide what is best for your life.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said perhaps a bit too quickly, his relief washing away most of the hurt from the vindictive remark.

Nicolas kept observing him.

“You live in obscurity only because you think the light will blind you,” he said slowly. “But I think you will never find your way if you do not turn on the light and open your eyes.”

“You know how I hated it when Kilgharrah spoke in riddles,” Merlin said, a wary grin sneaking onto his lips.

“Yes, I do,” answered Nicolas with a smirk.

The high-pitched grating sounded through the room again and Merlin stood from his chair, turning to face the door once more.

“Time is up I’m afraid, gentlemen,” said Dumbledore, coming back into the room. “We must leave for the Ministry.”

There was a grunt from behind Merlin and he turned to see Flamel standing from his armchair. Stepping around the edge of the large desk, he reached out his hand for Merlin to shake once more.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Lake,” he said, and there was no trace of a meaningful tone this time.

“The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Flamel,” replied Merlin, grasping his hand and giving it a firm shake. They gave each other one last appraising look, then Flamel gave Merlin a very final sort of nod, turned around, and walked over to the door.

“I will make sure you receive a decision within the week then, Mr. Lake,” said Dumbledore, holding the door open for his friend to exit. “Take care in the meantime, and please give your mother my warmest regards.”

“Thank you, and I will,” said Merlin.

The door began to swing shut, but just then, a thought struck Merlin, and to proceed with a clear conscience he needed an answer.

“Headmaster,” he called out apprehensively. The door stopped moving, then swung open again to reveal Dumbledore’s purple robes, long beard and pointed hat. “If I do get the position, what would become of Professor Binns?”

“Ah.” The old man’s twinkling eyes looked him up and down for a moment from behind their half-moon spectacles. “If my understanding is correct – and it usually is – then, being relieved of his position, he will have fulfilled the task which keeps his soul tied to this world. He will be at peace to move on, so to speak.”

Merlin nodded mutely, unsure of how to respond. For the second time that day he was consumed by that serene yet restless feeling, and he realised it was longing. A longing for peace; for him to also be released from his duties, to fade blissfully into an eternity where he didn’t have to care anymore, and where he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The world had never been shy with its demands on him. From early childhood it had made itself known through intolerance, forcing him to hide his magic or else be shunned, or potentially even executed. Next through the prophesy he was made responsible for the destiny of all of Albion, and he had worked day and night to serve and protect Arthur until the day he would deliver magic from persecution.

Then Merlin failed. But not even with Arthur dead was he allowed to rest; he was condemned to roam the land without end, biding his time for the Once and Future King to rise again. Relentlessly time would rip him from place after place as each one succumbed to the old age and changing times which never seemed to affect him. Again and again he was forced to find new ways to stay attached to a world which marched steadily onward, and he fought tooth and nail to not fall into the dark abyss of inconsequence.

But no living being can win in a battle against a force of nature. A century or so ago he finally withdrew from society completely, hanging on to the final thing he could rely on to never forsake him: himself. But now he was about to break with the safety of his isolation once more, and the prospect was terrifying. He couldn’t bear the thought of getting attached to a certain way of life yet again, living in dread of the day he would inevitably have to give it all up; keep existing knowing there were even more people he couldn’t meet, more places he couldn’t visit, more moments he couldn’t relive. One more safe harbour he could never return to.

Merlin suddenly realised he had been staring silently at the slow puffs of smoke rising from one of the silvery instruments. Shaking himself free of his daze, he once more looked up at Dumbledore. The twinkle had left the old wizard’s eye, replaced by a frown as he regarded Merlin thoughtfully.

Merlin felt his cheeks redden again. Their second farewell was brief and Merlin felt incredibly relieved when the door finally clicked shut, leaving him standing amongst the monotonous musical tapestry of the strange circular room, alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... long time no see ... but hey, I didn't make any promises ;)
> 
> This chapter put up a bit of a fight, but after a few rewrites I managed to build up some of that juicy drama (this has turned out to be my favourite chapter yet). That said, I am really enjoying writing this! Figuring out the characters, having them interact with the world and finding the perfect words to express what is happening; every chapter so far has grown so much from what I imagined it would be. It really is amazing how much more observant you become and how much you learn about a thing when you must translate it from imagined thoughts and feelings into concrete words. 
> 
> If you've only ever read fics, I can't recommend highly enough you try your hand at writing one! Nothing grand, just pick a moment (from whatever fandom) which resonated with **_you_** , and try to express how that felt. What was it that you liked in that moment? What did it make you feel? Indulge that feeling as far as it will go! Burry yourself in your fixations and follow them where they lead you. Have fun!
> 
> In this chapter I also wanted to challenge myself to follow the advice I've read on how to structure a scene for building tension, and it really helped a lot with abating my writer's block. Learning some theory behind story structure has really helped me ensure that this story says and does what I envisioned it to do, so if you find yourself knowing what you want to say but unsure how to say it, I highly recommend you learn some too. :)  
> (Although of course story structure is only valuable in so much as it helps you - learn the rules, if only to know how to break them effectively; any creative endeavour requires disobedience. Rebel!)
> 
> PS. Sorry for the note novel, just felt inspired...


End file.
